After the Silence
by phollie
Summary: There's still a war going on outside these quiet walls - and you're both going to make it out, together. / Spoilers for Retrace 78. Ozbert.


****A/N: I have never in my life cried so hard over a chapter than this one. By far my favorite chapter yet, and I am SO DAMN PROUD of Gilbert for what he did. I'm still working on three commissions, but I HAD to write this and get it out of my system.

This takes place directly after the chapter. Gilbert somehow got Oz away from all the mess for a while, I don't know how, jUST GO WITH IT JAFKLAFA I NEEDED THIS, OKAY. IT MAKES NO SENSE IN THE CURRENT TIMELINE but that's okay because OTP.

Also Gilbert is a huge dork in this. I really love this shift in his character.

Lyrics are "Running Up That Hill" by Placebo.

* * *

**.after the silence**

/

_tell me we both matter_

_don't we?_

/

For a moment, you can't decide if you want to punch Gilbert right in the jaw or cling to him for dear life.

So you do both.

Of course, he ducks right out of the way right before you can even make contact, and it would have been a lousy punch to begin with, but you still fall against his chest and beat at it with both fists, screaming his name between gritted teeth and crying like the child you never got the chance to be. Your voice echoes through this cold, cramped room he's sheltered you in, where he'd carefully cut the ropes binding your wrists and smiled at you like he meant it. You feel stupid and dizzy and furious at the thought, raging against fate and time and this stupid, _stupid_ thing Gilbert has done to himself because of you – and all the while, Gilbert just sits there and takes it. In fact, you even think you hear him laughing a little beneath his breath. You even think he broadens his chest a little to give you more room to beat on.

This isn't the Gilbert you used to know – and yet, somehow he's _more_. There's an air about him that is both parts quiet and confident. Certain. Maybe even a little delirious, you think, but not shattered. Not weak. Not like _you_ are now, as you scream and curse at him, your nails raking into the fabric covering his shoulders. You can't even tell if you're hitting him or holding onto him anymore, and your voice doesn't sound like your own when you gasp out, "You _idiot! _You – you f-fucking idiot, look what you've done to yourself! _Look!"_

But Gilbert doesn't look down at the space where his left arm once was. He just looks at _you._ His eyes are so bright and lucid that the memory of them appearing so dull and lifeless – moments before he shot you, moments before white-hot pain and confusion and iron bars – seems thousands of miles away in your mind, as if it happened in another lifetime, or in some macabre fairytale that's too horrid to believe.

And now you're not even sure where the tears are coming from or what they're for – they could be for Gilbert's tattered body, or for how you'd nearly _died_ before he burst onto the scene, or for Elliot and that coat of his that all but swallowed Leo's tiny body, or for all the things that Jack has drilled into your head (_not your body, not yourself, not anything, nothing is yours_), or for how right now, crumpled on your knees in this cold, cold room with rope-marks still stinging your wrists and blood still on your clothes, Gilbert has looked at you with honest eyes and nullified all of Jack's words with the sheer fact that he's _here._

You were just starting to accept. And here's Gilbert, giving you reason to hope again, and that chance at redemption, at making things okay again, it _hurts._ It hurts unlike any bullet wound or rejection or word from a ghost ever could, because Gilbert is right there within reach, still looking at you with adoring, determined eyes that made his choice long ago. If you let this happen, everything could change, and that potential frightens you deep down to the core until you're shaking and clutching at his shoulders with white-knuckled, bloody hands. You can barely even keep track of the words spilling from your lips now: broken chants of his name thrown into a mix of sobs and curses and half-formed insults that only stretch as far as telling him how _stupid_ he is, how stupid he's _always_ been – and then there's a confession, and you're telling him that you've missed him, god, you've fucking missed him, and what if the last time you'd ever seen him was at the other end of a gun, and what if Jack had been _right_, and –

All Gilbert has to say is your name, soft and sure, and you're silenced by his voice, then by his lips when he leans forward and catches yours. His mouth is cool and open and much more certain than you would have ever expected out of him, as is the warm hand that rises to cup your cheek. Even amidst your shock, it's the tenderness of each touch that has you paralyzed rather than the actual act of it; after all, you'd always sort of known that this would happen eventually, that this is what was in store for you both even when the timetable was thrown horribly off course, but the fact that it comes full circle in some freezing cement room, the both of you bloodstained and shaken, you a chain and he a Baskerville, it's almost ridiculous. Yet, considering the two of you, it's practically perfect.

Your jaw drops on a ragged gasp, and then you're kissing him back, your breath hitching from your crying and your hands fisting into his hair on a whim that you don't plan or understand. Gilbert shudders and sighs into your mouth, and when he moves forward, your back meets the cold wall before the warmth of his body makes up for it. There are more tears dampening your cheeks and pressing between your lips, but you can't tell if they're coming from you or from him – perhaps the both of you, it's been a long time coming – but for now, you let each and every horrific thought and fear drain out of you as Gilbert frees you from them, touch by touch.

When you're both emptied of breath, you're still clinging to him, your face buried into the soft fabric of his coat. He smells of blood, rain, and smoke. "Do you…have _any _idea…" He has to pause for a moment to catch his breath and huffs out a winded laugh. "How long I've wanted to do that…?"

You can't answer him. But you know. Somehow, somewhere within you, it hits you exactly how long it's been.

"I…" Gilbert laughs again, just as breathless as before. His arm wraps around your shoulders and holds you close to him. He's shaking. "I always assumed I'd have both arms to wrap around you, but…that's just a minor setback, yes?"

That pulls a laugh out of you, even though it sounds wet and ugly what with how you're still sniffing and trying to stop crying. "You're still an idiot…"

"I know."

You remain like this until you both lose track of time, slumped against each other and trying to breathe again. You don't know what will happen after this. You're still afraid, and you're still confused, but as Gilbert shakes against you and breathes in slow, deep sighs along your neck, you think that maybe, hopefully, possibly, this could mean something good.

There's still a war going on outside these quiet walls – and you're both going to make it out, together.


End file.
